


Warmth

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walda has learned to be resourceful on those cold days now that winter is coming. </p>
<p>Written for Porn Battle XIV.  Prompts were coy, delightful, pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

She sits by the fire with Roose, in her rooms at the Twins, watching the wood pop and spit, but she’s not paying much attention, her thoughts focused more on his hand as it rests idly on her breast, the feeling of his fingers, slightly too cold, teasing at the edge of her neckline a terrible distraction. They’re sitting close, very close, Walda’s head resting on his chest, wrapped in his arms. She knows that the intimacy is mostly borne of a need for warmth. Although the Twins is sumptuous, ponderously large and ornate, it’s also drafty, with vast high ceilings and even for a northerner like her Lord of Bolton, it’s not exactly comfortable. 

She sighs contentedly as he works his hand inside of her gown, skin against skin.

“Little wife,” Roose murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, almost difficult to hear over the fire and the sound of the wind snapping at the casement. 

She turns in his arms, her cheeks flushed at the implication of his words, for she is newly-wed and unused to thinking of herself as anyone’s wife, let alone his, brushing her lips against his, melting against him when his hold on her tightens, when he kisses her back more forcefully than her almost childish affections. And when they continue, when she is half-unlaced and half on his lap, his fingers fumbling with the ribbons on her dress, he stops. 

“It will be more comfortable in the bed,” Roose says, and Walda grins broadly as his lips curl slightly. 

When they are in the bedroom, she undresses in front of the mirror, bodice gaping open, exposing her breasts, visible through the sheer fabric of her shift, a delicate pink shade that matches that of the gown. When Roose slides off her clothing, baring her, and when he grasps her shoulders, sliding hands to cup her breasts, to grasp her rounded belly, she cries out, softly at first, enjoying the feel of her husband’s touch, loving the pleased expression on his face, the sharp smile that he only ever bares to her when they are behind closed doors. It’s not long before she’s wearing nothing, her wedding trousseau forgotten, crumpled on the floor, not long before he’s just as unclad, Walda’s hands working at men’s clothing, fumbling with fastenings and lacings, not long before they’re tangled together on the bed. 

She loves how much he wants her. Roose Bolton is not an overly affectionate man; in fact she’s done her best to draw him out in the short time that they’ve been married, but aside from when they bed together, he is courteous, cool, indifferent. Walda pays it no mind though, thinking on her mother’s words that northern lords are a different breed, lacking the heated emotions of men in the Riverlands, and she does not begrudge Roose his distance. There is no distance tonight though, when he pins her to the mattress, fingers trailing down her body, brushing her skin lightly, until they reach her thighs, which he gently parts, grasping them.

“Your hands are so cold,” she says with some shock, and giggles. Roose doesn’t reply but bends to kiss her again, to silence her raucous laughter, and she returns the favor, trailing her lips lightly across the bridge of his nose. “But worry not, sweet husband. I shall warm them.” 

“I should not wish to chill you, little Walda,” he murmurs in her ear, but she shakes her head, anticipating their coupling, for she’s been insatiable ever since their first bedding. 

“You won’t,” she says, her fingers twining round his wrists, drawing them inward. 

She smiles then, an easy, open expression, and when his hands find their purchase, fingers sliding inside of her, stroking her, she gasps, her breath coming quicker as her husband pleasures her. As the rhythm of his touch intensifies, Walda allows herself to let loose with a loud moan, not caring who hears, in fact, hoping that everyone does. When she peaks, her thighs tighten around his body, she shudders, and allows herself to lie there idly as a dull warmth spreads through her.

And when her husband, apparently still not warm enough, pulls her on top of him, she is only too happy to oblige.


End file.
